Strange Hands
by Albertus Zeno
Summary: This is my 'I'm angry at the world and just want to make someone suffer' story. If you're looking for a good dose of angst in your life, this story can't hurt. Well...it might. Haters, please read the warnings before you flame -the accuracy is appreciated
1. Chapter 1

**To The Masses: **I was reading a fic, I don't remember what it was called. I was in a bad mood, though, and it spawned the first scene.

**Warnings: **AU, Slash, Abuse, Suicide Attempts, Implies Rape, Implies Prostitution. Will eventually contain a lot more warnings.

**Disclaimer: **Standard Disclaimers Apply

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**Chapter One**

_Photography can only represent the present. Once photographed, the subject becomes part of the past. - Berenice Abbott _

Merlin, he was a thirteen year old boy -nearly fourteen, he reminded himself again and again. He did not fit in the cupboard under the stairs no matter how much Vernon believed otherwise. Dear lord, did that fat man believe down to his very bones that Harry would survive another summer in that little closet under the stairs, most definitely. He had even said as much as he grasped his nephews elbow and shoved him in, kicking the boys feet so that the door would close all the way and then locking it from the outside.

The man was irate, angry beyond words that Sirius had threatened them. Of course, the impending doom brought about by a man, convicted of fourteen murders, then escaped prison was very effective…until Vernon had reasoned away his fear. He claimed that Sirius was too busy hiding in another country and wouldn't put himself at risk of being caught just to save a poor little freak with no parents. Those were Vernon's words, not Harry's.

He recalled that he hadn't been in the cupboard since he was eleven, as he chased a common house spider with his hand. He hadn't grown much, had barely even hit puberty and he'd always been small. He thought back to all of the comments of how much he looked like his father; it was either all bull shit or his father had been of similar stature. It also crossed his mind that the only reason he still fit in that god-forsaken hole in the wall was because he'd never gotten enough to eat, or even exercise, or because he was forced to live there for so many years that his body dare not grow.

Harry went on to wonder when someone would save him. _If_ someone would save him. He lucked out in first year when Hagrid had stalked them to a shanty on a recluse island, and again before second year when a few of the Weasley sons just happened to come by to pick him up (without permission or explanation). He couldn't let himself hope that he could be so lucky again, for a third year in a row.

Harry _did_ consider himself lucky that for the next five days his relatives let him out to relieve the pressure in his bladder, to stretch his legs a little as he did chores, and allowed him to drink water (Granted it was from the hose, while he tended the garden, but it was still water). Then on the sixth day they came; two men that were relatively the same size as his uncle.

Harry watched them walk into the sitting room from the little ventilation holes in the door, listened to them talk about work. Petunia was suspiciously absent, as was the little tub of lard called Dudley. He remembered they left while he was tending the garden, but he wasn't told were. It was none of his business, and they all knew it. The small boy eventually tuned out the adults in the sitting room, and fixed his attention on the fact that he hadn't had a scrap of food in two days.

Food had always been important to him, as soon as he was old enough to realize that he might starve unless he provided for himself. When he was younger it was easy to get sustenance, because they hadn't placed the padlock on his door until he was nearly ten. Before that he would sneak out and riffle through the fridge, taking a little cheese here or some fruit there, nothing that would be noticed. By that time he had already realized that some of Dudley's old toys could fetch him a price, so he would sneak some of the old action figures out of his second bedroom and sell them to boys all over the neighborhood. With that money he would buy chocolate, because the sweet candy fetched a much higher reward on a child's playground than actual money. He could trade the bars of chocolate for other children's lunches, until he started attending Hogwarts.

After starting his magical education he had drifted away from his contacts, and wasn't likely to gain any of them back unless they happened to wonder into the Dursley's back yard. He would have to find another way to feed himself. Harry was weighting the pro's and con's of breaking into the neighbors house (they were on vacation anyways) and raiding their fridge when he heard his name.

Well, it wasn't really his name. Vernon had some something about the 'Freak Boy,' which might as well have been his name because he'd recognized the title all the same. The three men were talking about him, and that unsettled Harry more than a little.

In all of the years that Harry had lived at the Dursley's they never mentioned him to anyone else, and when someone else asked about him they were brushed off with a mumbled comment. He was more especially not to be mentioned when guests were in the house, because his guardians surely didn't want people to find out he was kept in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry had never heard anyone deviate from what he knew to be normal, especially his uncle. That man absolutely loathed him, and would never mention him to people he worked with, and would never call him a freak in front of others.

Vernon had, he'd broken all of the rules. He was heard standing up, and Harry recognized the sound because every time he did so the old chair would scrap against the wood floors. His heavy feet, were heard trudging across the living room, the door opened, and Vernon was there. He was looking at Harry through the small gaps in the door, carrying the smell of whisky with him. "You are a little freak, aren't you?"

Harry didn't respond, though he wished he could say something catty or sarcastic. He would have been happy to take a page out of Snapes greasy book and reduce his uncle to a sniveling student who had just blown up their cauldron. Then he reminded himself that he had to have realistic expectations, he had to come to terms that something bad was about to happen.

"These kind," Vernon paused to burp and then blow his disgusting breath into the cupboard, "kindly gentlemen have offered a good sum of money." Again, his uncle had to pause but this time it was to regain his equilibrium. The man had obviously had too much whisky, and longer it took for Vernon to continue his little speech the lower Harry's stomach dropped. "Money," he said again, "do to what they want to you. So you'll walk into that room and you won't leave until I say so."

Harry repeated the words again, in his mind. Something was wrong with the them, something…It clicked.

His next thoughts were that he didn't want to be beaten, or touched, or forced to touch them. For once he wasn't looking forward to leaving his cupboard. _His_ cupboard, the only thing in that stupid house that no one dared to violate. Now he was going to be violated.

Harry listened to the sound of the lock being undone, and tried to press himself against the furthest wall. Vernon wouldn't fit through the door and might not be able to reach him. As he pressed against the furthest wall his hands fumbled over bottles, large containers full of cleaning solutions. He didn't want to be violated or molested or in pain. He grasped one bottle and threw it across the small space, hitting his uncle in his fat head. Another bottle followed soon after; Bleach, if Harry wasn't mistaken.

Vernon wasn't thwarted, sadly enough. The old walrus of a man managed to wrap his fat fingers around Harry's bony ankle and yanked him hard. Harry's head jerked back in surprise colliding with the underside of a stair and he saw stars.

They weren't really stars, in his opinion. It looked more like there were black holes burning through his already blurry vision. He only vaguely noticed being drug way from his personal hell-hole and tossed into another one that resembled his aunt's sitting room. Now instead of just his uncle, there were two other men leering at him. One was a little larger than his uncle, he certainly did have an extra chin or two than the fat man his aunt had married, and wasn't balding. He actually had a pony tail, a thin and wavy pony tail. The one next to him was just as large, but he was all bald and Harry couldn't help but thing he preferred that hair style to the others.

The three of them smirked down at him, each pair of eyes were full of hatred and a promise that he would be in agony long before they were done with him. Harry could only reckon that he was already in pain, it radiated from the back of his skull, and he just wanted to be left alone.

"Scream Freaky-Boy," threatened the man with the pony-tail, "and we'll make it worse."

Oh no, Harry certainly wouldn't' be getting any alone time.

Joyce had just picked up her son from the movies and was driving home. She remembered when she was his age and all the wanted to do was go to the corner store with her friends; they would pay less than a pound for a fountain drink and a snack after school. Inflation hit, and now it cost her son his whole allowance just to go out on Friday nights.

She marveled over the changes over the decades, glancing in the rearview mirror to see her only child was looking out of the window. His earphones were firmly over his small ears (like his fathers) and he was listening to some music she probably wouldn't approve of. She didn't expect him to jerk away from the window and start shouting.

"Mum, Mum! Pull over!" He was yanking off his headphones and undoing his seatbelt as he continued to shout.

She turned the wheel quickly, because it was obviously some kind of emergency. Before she came to a complete stop he had opened the door and was running. Joyce didn't even bother to take the keys out of the ignition and concentrated on catching up with him.

It didn't take her long to realize what her son was in an uproar about. It didn't take her long to see the body.

The closer she got the more unnerved she became. She didn't even notice when other cars pulled up behind her and people began to follow, she only saw the body. Her son was already there and kneeling down, turning the boy on his back. The child didn't move, he didn't even look like he was breathing.

When she reached two she knelt down beside him. The boy was covered in blood, so were her son's hands as he pressed down on the boys arm. He was trying to stop the bleeding, but there were so many other injuries. His small frame was littered with little fountains that either gushed or drizzled blood. His think clothes were already drenched, but his small chest kept rising. Her own child was busy trying to make bandages out of his shirt and keeping his hands on the boy, her own child was at least doing _something_.

With one more look at the frail child, she turned over her shoulder and shouted and someone, _anyone_ to call for an ambulance. She then removed her summer sweater and began to help her son keep that small boy alive. As long as his chest kept rising and falling, she told herself, and she barely registered the sound of sirens wailing.

His senses came back to him one at a time. The first was touch, his stiff fingers twitched against clean sheets. Then taste, and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls. He stayed like that for a while longer, trying to remember where he was. Hogwarts was his first guess, but school was let out and he didn't remember catching the train back.

Then he heard the quiet buzz of electricity that would never penetrate the school, and a high pitched beep that seemed to match his heart beat. He remembered being at the Dursley's, having been confined to his cupboard.

When he saw the light just behind his eyelids he began to wish he couldn't. His memories returned one after another, pressing against the front of his skull, and Harry wished he couldn't remember. He would willingly give up all of the memories if he could just forget those last few hours. He would give up all that he knew about magic, all of his spells, his memories of Ron and Hermione and Sirius.

Sirius, the name ran through his mind more than once. Why hadn't Sirius saved him? Harry didn't really have to ask, he already knew the answer. His godfather was in hiding, and in some backwards way Harry was glade the man hadn't saved him. He didn't want his only remaining family to be caught by Dementors and Kissed. That didn't mean Harry wanted to be victimized so brutally, but he didn't want Sirius to lose his soul either.

So there, that was his silver lining (sort of). With that resolved he finally opened his eyes, a little at time. Three years at Hogwarts told him that while in the infirmary you never, never opened your eyes as quickly as you could. You eased them open so that your eyes wouldn't sting and you wouldn't tear up, but mostly so that you didn't attract the attention of Madame Pomphrey.

His remained unlucky, though. Reminding him of that fact was a voice, old and raspy, "are you going to open your eyes or not, because if you don't I have a mind to take this lunch right back down to the cafeteria and give it to someone who will actually eat it."

Forgetting his pervious rule of eye-opening in obnoxiously white rooms, his lids flung open and then quickly slammed shut again. "I'm up," he said, stressing his vocal cords. He honestly thought he would sound louder, but the two small words came out in a rasp similar to the other voice in the room. He cleared his throat and tried again, only managing to get the word "awake," out.

"Well of course you are," the woman, at least Harry thought it was a woman, snapped. He could hear the sharp clicking sound of her heals against the floor, "now I'll help you sit up if you don't mind."

Harry wanted to tell the snaky woman to sod off, but quickly realized why she had offered. He tried to sit up on his own, moving his arms a bit. Only his arms protested, rather loudly, as pain shot through his nerves and he resisted the urge to cry out.

"Don't over do it, idiot child," she snapped, her voice sounded closer than before. Then a hand rested on his arm and he jerked away, there was no caustic remark after that. Instead she waited a moment, and as she did so Harry opened his eyes a little more.

The light didn't hurt as much, and she was close enough that Harry could see her even without his glasses. She was thin, but not in the anorexic way that his aunt was, this woman was healthy. Her hair was gray and held in a bun, but it wasn't as tight of a bun as Professor McGonagall's. Her face wasn't kind by any measure (or young), but there was a maternal softness about her eyes that seemed to apologize for something. "Maybe we should use the control instead," she finally said.

Harry wondered what she was talking about, and watched her hand move to press on a small green button. Instantly he was being moved by the bed into a sitting position. He was still a little slouched over, but didn't mind so long as the woman didn't touch him again.

"Now, while you eat I'm going to ask you some questions," Harry didn't like the sound of that. He didn't want the Dursley's to show up and take him back to that torture pit, or someone from the Daily Prophet showing up with a camera, or some old enemy from the magical world to show up and kill him (he certainly wouldn't put that past Lucius Malfoy). So he shook his head.

"No," the nurse repeated as if she'd never had that sort of response before, "No you don't want to eat or no you don't want to answer my questions?" The nurse nagged as she moved the tray and table towards Harry.

He held up two fingers in response, 'No, he didn't want to answer her questions.' He would really like to eat, because as far as he recalled he was now on day three of no food. He didn't care what people said about hospital food, he thought as he found his mouth full of jello.

"The doctor said you may not have any solid foods until you're throat is better healed, someone seemed to have poured some sort of cleaning solution into you," she explained, and then went on to explain to Harry why he wasn't feeding himself. "Both of your arms were broken," Harry glanced to the side to survey his white casts as the old woman rattled off a list of the rest of his injuries. "And I suppose if you don't answer my questions you just won't go home." Harry didn't react, the woman obviously meant his muggle place of living and there was no way in hell he was going back. "You don't want to go home and we still don't know what to call you."

Not Harry Potter, that was for damn sure. He didn't want any of the previous threats to find him, and instantly began thinking of a name. Something believable for Sirius or Professor Lupin or Dumbledore could follow. Something from his Astronomy class struck him, that Canis Major was also called Sirius. Harry knew there was a reason he liked that constellation, and in both cases they were dogs.

If he remembered correctly, while absently taking another bite of clear-ish green goop, Sirius followed Orion the Hunter. So he'd decided on at least one name, Orion. Orion Black had a nice ring to it, it was certainly better than Orion Potter or Smith, but it was also the name of a man that had passed the Lycanthrope laws of 1920 (he remembered that much from DADA class with Snape). Then it had to be a synonym, and Harry's mind went through a long list of things that were black or dark. Finally he picked 'Noir,' that he'd remembered were a genre of crime movies and it meant black, so it was a two for one.

"Well," it seemed the nurse's patience only lasted a minute at the most. "are you going to tell me your name or not?"

"Noir," he croaked. His throat wasn't as dry as before, but it still burned with every swallow and word, "Orion Noir."

The woman snorted, "Yes, that's not a fake name at all," she said sarcastically. Harry schooled is face to look absolutely serious and refused to take another bite, and she seemed to realize he wasn't joking. "All right then, you shouldn't be too hard to find in the records."

As it turned out 'Orion Noir' was very hard to find. Oddly enough it wasn't because it was a completely fictitious, but that there were a lot of families with the same last name.

Child Protective Services tried to shorten the list by birth year, and then by the area, and finally by description. They'd questioned Harry, as had the a couple of detectives, but that yielded vague information. The boy only admitted to what happened to him and that it was by a relative, he didn't know his own medical number, didn't know where he was, or even if he had other family. It wasn't the clear cut case of child abuse, but it was enough for a court to label him as a ward of the government.

Harry, who finally got used to being called Orion, understood all of those facts as they were presented to him. He knew what that meant, and he tried to sneak out of the hospital several times. He even made it to the parking lot once, before security caught up with him and he was forced back to his room.

The nurse, who liked to be called Nurse Pamela, was unexpectedly amused by every attempt. Still, she refused to undo the straps that they'd put around both tiny, casted wrists. He was finally allowed to eat real food though, and Nurse Pamela was allowed to release his bonds so that he could feed himself. Harry suspected that she did so mostly to watch on in sadistic glee as he tried to feed himself without the full dexterity of his fingers.

It was the day he was getting his arms casts redone, because the swelling had finally gone down and his thin arms could now slip clean out of them, when he met his inspiration. He was sitting in a hospital issued wheelchair, as no one really wanted to let him walk anywhere with a full leg cast. A young woman, maybe a couple of years older than him, was sitting on the bench he was parked next to.

Harry's attention was caught by the light brown roots that sprung out of her head and faded into purple. He'd never seen anyone with colored hair before, unless the Weasley Twins had decided to prank someone in that fashion. He must have been staring too long, because her large brown eyes swiveled in her skull to stare at him. His first instinct was to scream, her eyes were that frightening. His second to was ask her if she was all right, because it looked like they would pop clear out of her head.

Instead, she spoke first. "Hot damn, and I thought I was messed up." He flushed in embarrassment. She wasn't the first one to point out that he looked like a right mess, Nurse Pamela thought it was part of her daily ritual, but his girl was the loudest. She also held no trace of the familiar English accent, and he'd never before heard anyone say 'hot damn.'

After nearly a month in the hospital Harry still didn't know what to say in response. Finally he gave a gallant shrug, refusing to flinch as his arms hit the sides of his casts.

The girl still didn't take her large eyes off of him, and they sat in an awkward silence for many moments. She seemed to have decided something, and reached into her white, hospital issued pants, pulling out a silver box. Well, it was at least box shaped but the longer Harry looked the more he came to realize it was some new piece of technology.

"Wanna take a picture with me?" She voice wasn't nearly as loud as the first time she spoke, but her speech pattern still baffled him a bit. When he nodded, she slid along the smooth bench until she was nearly too close to comfort. When she pulled the chair close and draped an arm over his shoulder he tried to beat down the part of his brain that screamed at her touch. "Someone sure fucked you over, didn't they?"

Harry could only give another shrug, and directed his eyes towards the silver box. The purple haired girl had pressed the 'on' button, and the cylinder shaped lens stretched out. Harry only watched in fascination, as his aunt had only ever used disposable camera's and they were nothing like this shiny piece of technology. The girl didn't bother to tell him to smile, which was all good he supposed, because he hadn't been in smiling type of mood.

When she was done with the picture she pulled away, but didn't move back to the other side of the bench. She turned the camera around so that he could see the picture she'd just taken, and he looked on in interest. The young woman hadn't bothered to smile either, but had turned her head to look at him with some sort of amusement.

"M' name's Violet. What's yers?" she asked a moment later. Her buggy brown eyes were looking at him quizzically, but her expression was sort of nice.

"Orion Noir," Harry supplied. He was already in the routine of giving his fake name with a serious look as if daring someone to laugh at the archaic oddness of it all.

This girl didn't laugh, but she did smirk, " That's not yer real name."

"Well Violet's not yours, either," Harry shot back, taming his tone to sound just as amused as hers had been. She either didn't know she was being offensive, or she was teasing. Harry was also trying to get his anger under better control, and didn't want to direct it at the first non-nurse-or-doctor to talk to him since he woke up in the hospital for the first time.

"Touché," Her smirk grew into a grin. She glanced up and down the hall quickly, before she looked back at Harry. "I haven't told a man my real name since I was sixteen."

Harry fought to keep his eyes from growing at the implication. She was a prostitute, probably had a pimp, might have been addicted to drugs. Harry had heard all of the bad things about the working women of downtown from his aunt over and over again, even if he was just eavesdropping from his cupboard. "I guess that's one way to keep stalkers at bay," he joked.

His attempt at amusement was rewarded with a short chuckle, "Your too funny to be so injured," was her ungracious reply.

Harry shrugged for the third time since he had started talking to the girl, a habit he must have developed from blowing off so many inquiries from the authorities. He had no response for her unsubtle jab, either.

An orderly walked out of a room and called for a 'Steel, Violet,' and the girl stood. She was a little shaky on her legs, but she wore confident mask. "Mister Noir," she said jokingly, as she thrust her hand in his face. Harry's eyes nearly crossed in the effort to focus on her hand, only for him to realize she was holding out the small cameral. His questioning look traveled up her arm and into eyes that hanging onto her skull by a thread. She shrugged, "I stole it, so it's not like it costs me anything. You should have it though, I've already got four back at my place."

Harry raised a stiff arm and grasped the edge of the silver camera between his thumb and index finger, the only way he could hold anything. "Thank you," he said with all sincerity, but the girl had already turned away and was walking towards the open door.

In his remaining week at the hospital Harry learned to use his new camera, nicking batteries from wherever he could find them just so the fun wouldn't end. He figured out how to focus, delete, and take pictures as well as a few other little tricks. By the time he was being packed away he had the first picture with Miss Violet, some with Nurse Pamela, and a few of his doctors. No one asked where he got it, only that he not take pictures around all of the hospital equipment, and even that was only half hearted.

The social worker that came to collect him introduced herself as 'Kathie Colburn,' a perfectly simple British name. She stumbled over his chosen pseudonym a bit, before she learned to wrap her mouth around Noir. To annoy the woman he insisted that be what she call him, and then asked for a picture. He quickly grew fond of the confused looking social worker that he'd caught on camera.

Ms. Colburn tried to draw him into conversation as soon as he'd gotten in the car and somehow managed to get his seatbelt on with two bum arms. She asked about things like sports, what he liked to read, or his favorite TV sitcom. None of those merited answers, and she quickly gave up. Finally, she began to tell him about a foster family.

"Mister and Mrs. Kennicot are really a nice couple…" from there on Harry stopped listening. He didn't want to hear about some family that he didn't know. He really just wanted to be with Sirius and away from the muggle world. Sure, he put on a good face, but his actions spoke volumes; Twelve escape attempts, one shouting match with Nurse Pamela, three outbursts directed at the doctors, launching his cast at a nutritionists head (that's how they discovered his swelling had gone down dramatically), and one incident with a bottle of sleeping pills.

Now that he was out of the hospital it would be a lot easier to sneak away and catch the magical community's attention, or so Harry thought.

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**To Those Who Just Read: **

I imagine it gets a lot worse from here on out. Consider yourselves warned.

I like reviews and quotes

Later

**Alzipher**


	2. Chapter 2

**To the Masses: **I started this as soon as I finished the first chapter, but it took a lot for me to decide to finally post it. Thank you Vukk, because I think your review jump started my brain. Also thanks to Julie, whose review I couldn't privately reply to; Thank you, thank you, and thank you. I liked your review.

On a somewhat related to this story note, I still can't remember what the other story was called or who wrote it. I'll find it eventually, though. Also, the pairings for this story are still undecided but will be _**Slash**_. At first it was going to be Harry/Sirius, but now I'm leaning more towards Harry/Charlie or Harry/Bill. I don't know…Harry/Someone older.

**Warnings: **AU, Slash, Abuse, Suicide Attempts, Implies Rape, Implies Prostitution. NEW: Actual Prostitution, Pedophilia, Language, Nudity, Gore, Drug Use. Will eventually contain more warnings.

**Disclaimer: **Standard Disclaimers Apply

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**Chapter Two**

_The virtue of the camera is not the power it has to transform the photographer into an artist, but the impulse it gives him to keep on looking - and looking. - Brooks Atkinson_

Kathie Colburn, the case worker was a liar- there was no two ways around that fact. She new that the Kennicot's were not nice people, or good, or have any sense of a moral compass. The three of them were pure evil, more so than Voldemort or a Malfoy, down to their very last bone.

The events of the three months played through his mind over and over again, even as he pretended to pay attention and answered generic questions. The only thing that kept him seated in the uncomfortable mental chair was a small hand holding his. Long, dark fingers squeezed his pale ones in an attempt to comfort him, and Harry pulled out of his thoughts.

Josef Swane was born in Germany, but his biological parents abandoned him while on a short vacation in Britain. He'd been with the Kennicot's for two years, two long and damaging years. His brown eyes bore into Harry's, trying to tell him it was okay that it was over now. Never again would Mrs. Jane Kennicot sneak into their room at night, never again would pin them down with manicured hands and have her way with their malnourished bodies. Mr. Argo Kennicot would no longer make deals with strange men or women who used them up, one by one after paying so much money.

Harry's green eyes stared right back, taking it all in. Then he remembered the shame as the technician taking off his leg cast asked why there were needle marks between his toes came from, the lonely and frightening moments that followed as the man left the room to fetch a doctor and to call the police. In those moments Harry pulled out a digital camera, gazing at picture after picture in an effort to comfort himself. When that didn't work he began taking pictures of himself, his newly freed leg, and the small office.

If that wasn't embarrassing enough;, that damned case worker knew. She had been plenty aware of what went on in that house at night, and she received a cut of the profit for keeping her mouth shut and allowing them to take in young boys to abuse. She sold them all out for her selfish gain, and Harry didn't even consider not telling for even a brief moment. He was going to tell, only the nagging shame of the events kept him from telling anyone willing to listen.

After he was looked over by a doctor, pronounced bruised and shaken, and discharged he got a ride with two officers who drove him to the station. In the time he spent in the muggle world he learned a little more about the things he'd missed out on, and could keep a civil conversation with some people without stumbling over concepts like television and music. The officers didn't really know what had happened to him, but if they did Harry was sure that they wouldn't have wanted to talk to him.

Josef squeezed his hand again and Harry looked back at the detective. To Harry's left was their legal counselor who encouraged them to tell their story, and she was nice enough to let the boys sit with each other while they took turns. It was now Harry's turn and he'd stopped in mid-sentence to think things over.

"You were saying Mr. Noir?" Detective Whitney asked. The kind looking woman looked back at him with concern and more than a little tension. She didn't like hearing their stories and more than they liked to tell them. No body liked to year about young boys, from the age of twelve to fourteen, being beaten and used for sex. It was her field of work though, and she had to hear the story so that they would press charges and the Kennicot's could start their long sentence in a high security prison.

"My birthday, July 20th,' it wasn't his real birthday, but it was close enough without giving them even more evidence to connect him with the Dursley's "The day was relatively normal, I suppose. For most of the day I was doing my school work and trying to catch up with the other kids, Josef assisted me with my mathematics."

"Yes, it says in your file that your previous guardian didn't allow you to return to school after you turned eleven. Can you tell me why that is?" The detective's question wasn't relevant, she knew that, Harry knew it, even Josef knew it. The solicitor just nodded, indicating that Harry was to answer the question.

"He said a freak like me had no use for school," which was true, "and no, I don't know why he thought that," and it wasn't that big of a lie, but he couldn't very well tell her that he dropped out of muggle school to attend one for witchcraft and wizardry. The detective gave him a look that told him to continue, "I turned fourteen, a special age I suppose, for people who -" Harry cut off his own sentence, not wanting to finish that thought because it would be flat out saying that he had been whored out for money, "Dinner was nice, as was the cake. I'm sure you know by now it's only after the street lights come on that everything get's shot to hell. I had showered, Josef and another boy watched the door and I got out as soon as I could. I went to my room, but I didn't want to."

"She wouldn't let me stay," Josef added sadly. Harry nodded, remembering the woman's insistence that Josef needed to be in his own room, where there was probably someone already waiting.

"She came in after she sent Josef away, and closed and locked the door behind her -like she usually does. I waited on my bed like I was supposed to." He couldn't take it, he didn't want to say it. It was better and worse than anything that had ever happened to him. He remembered at first how nerve wrecking it had been, "she came in with a syringe in hand. I didn't know what was in it, and I didn't know what to do. I just sat there, on the bed like she told me to. At first I didn't think anything of it, she gave Josef shots every night. She took of my slipper and pressed the needle in between my toes. I," Harry began to stutter lightly as he remembered the hours that followed. The first man that came in and held him in his lap, and Harry was too disconnected to fight back. Then a second man, and the third customer of the night -an old rich woman.

"I understand," Detective Whitney interrupted, "the drug she used is called heroine. The both of you say that she did the same to you?" the attention turned to Josef, who nodded slowly. He'd already told his story and the drug use was evident, but she had to make sure there were no gaps in their recollections.

"Every other night since I turned fourteen," which had been a year prior to Harry's acceptance into the house. This time he pulled his sleeves up so the detective would see the track marks. Harry was sure his arms would have looked like pin cushions too, if he didn't have the casts.

Four hours later and they were done. Ever single sin committed by the Kennicot's and to Harry had been said aloud and recorded by a little machine that sat in the middle of the table. Detective Whitney and their court appointed solicitor also took many notes, and there was the occasional break so that both women could absorb the knowledge without having complete nervous breakdowns.

Harry and Josef handled everything to the best of their abilities, and neither of them cared to shed any tears during the process. Even though telling their stories had been almost as bad as living it, they still had each other to cling to. Afterwards they rode back to the hospital together, in the back of a police car. This time Harry would be staying on the rehabilitation floor. At least until his body no longer craved the needle to pierce his skin and deliver him from the hell of humanity.

That night with Vernon Dursley and his two fat friends was lost to him in the following six months. The torture of the Kennicot's seemed like a walk in the park in comparison to rehabilitation. Withdrawal was it's own personal level of hell, and at the time Harry was sure he would have rather died.

Not long after they were sent to the hospital He'd been sent to South Wellington Rehabilitation, while Josef was sent in another direction. His doctors explained that they had been separated because certain people could also trigger a relapse and that wouldn't do them any good at all. Harry barely accepted that fact a mere five weeks into his therapy, only one week after he stopped vomiting daily and he wasn't shaking nearly much. The same week they had finally untied him from his bed and allowed him interact with some of the other patients. It also helped that he'd stopped throwing things at orderlies and hadn't attempted to end his own life after yet another episode in which he tried to down another bottle of sleeping pills.

At the time he had experienced a sense of happiness as he was on this thirteenth pill and relaxed into his thin mattress. It wasn't even a minute later when a nurse and two burley blokes had barreled into his room, and that particularly large woman jammed her fingers down his throat. He'd started vomiting instantly, and the only sense of satisfaction he got out of his botched suicide attempt was that the contents of his stomach projected forth from his mouth and all over the woman. He merited extra group therapy for that little stunt, something he was angry upon finding out.

The only thing that kept him mildly calm through those months, were the books. His doctors were nice enough to provide him texts on almost any subject. Chemistry had been vetoed until the fourth month, after he'd finished four biology texts and two on physics. He had slowly made his way through a few math books, but found them to be really repetitive. There was little leeway in math, everything was about facts (one plus one equals two, every damn time), and because of the lack of variety he'd moved onto a list of books children his age would be reading in muggle school.

He never mentioned the magical world to anyone other than to tell a few stories that others believed to be wonderful works of fiction, and they were…most of the time. The worlds were the same, the same Ministry of Magic, the same Hogsmeade, but different characters and different adventures. Harry spent most of his nights thinking up new horrors to put his fictitious characters through. Once or twice he leeched stories out of Lockhart's books, adventures other witches or wizards accomplished but couldn't remember. The mute woman he told them to didn't respond as well to those, so he tried to keep his distance from those. His own misadventures were put forth only three times, one for every year at Hogwarts, and she would blink slowly at him through the retellings. Harry took it as a positive reaction, as did the doctors, but he didn't have much to share.

There were certain dreams, though. While he slept he watched an old man climb a case of stairs, watched the man kneel before a deformed child-body, watched the snake, _understood_ the snake. Every night for months, so often that therapy with Doctor Howell started off with "Another night with the mutant baby from hell and it's pet snake."

Doctor Howell always responded the same, "Oh? Have you given any thought of what it could mean?" and Harry would shake his head. Afterwards they would talk about a number of things, usually the Dursley's who Harry creatively called 'First-Shitty-Family,' and their passive aggressive, physiological torture until that night. Sometimes he would talk about the Kennicot's, but usually ended in explaining that he missed Josef. He still had his pictures though, and Howell took a little delight and listening to Harry explain about certain ones.

There were things he didn't talk about, like Hogwarts and the trials he went through. Though he was sure his childhood and the stay with his first foster family was enough for his doctor to understand that he was almost completely adverse to attention, and that spawned into his nearly daily stories of adventure and magic.

In his last month at South Wellington, Doctor Howell handed him a thin book that he'd picked out specifically for Harry to keep. "The New Meditation Handbook?" Harry asked upon receiving it.

Doctor Howell nodded first and then answered, "Maybe it will help you with those dreams of yours," The man looked at him with a serious face and continued, "You're making excellent progress in your recovery, have you given any thought to what you'll do when you leave?"

Harry squashed the urge to snap at the man, having taken offense to something he'd said (Harry wasn't quite sure what it was). "I'll get a new foster family, won't I? I'll start school again, and wait until someone adopts me or I turn eighteen."

"Indeed, and I expect you'll do very well in classes," Howell was doing his best to keep the tension down, he had seen his patient was getting irritable again.

It worked, and Harry relaxed into the conversation.

After being released from the hospital Harry learned something of absolutely truth; school sucked. It wasn't nearly as bad as other things he'd experienced, like his new foster family or drug withdrawals, but it certainly wasn't the highlight of his day.

Mrs. Brill wouldn't allow any of her foster children to be home schooled, not even if they were as socially inept as he was. Harry was to attend school until he graduated, no questions and no exceptions. Borne from that rule was a new goal; graduate as fast as he could. So upon arrival at the school Harry demanded the first teacher for a placement exam. The woman looked as if she would laugh, but didn't dare -all of his teachers and administrators were briefed on his condition (without as many details as possible).

For the most part Harry just wanted to know where he stood against the other students his age, and he was indulged by every teacher. For the whole school day Harry sat in a room and took his placement exams. The tests didn't cover everything he'd learned, nor did he have the answered to every single question. That didn't stop him from giving his best rationalizations, and it wouldn't stop him from getting out of school.

He absolutely hated the students. Word got out that he'd been in a mental health institute, and everyone stared. Not 'Look it's the Boy-Who-Lived,' stare but 'Look, it's the tweeker,' which might have been worse. If it wasn't that than it was self-important people who approached him with pity and talked down on him. He had no friend amongst those children, no one he could connect to. Occasionally he remembered Josef, but their bond was created through mutual suffering and survival -Harry had nothing in common with those new people.

One week later he had his results, and a possible answer as to how people could hate muggles. The answer to the last was rather simple, they were annoying. Although to Harry, everyone was annoying. His two week stay with Mrs. Brill and her six other foster children was enough to engrave that into his mind.

The test results were all unexpectedly positive. He would have to take a couple of tests for Literature and Language Arts, before he wouldn't be required to attend the class. He could skip a year in math, and he was still confused as to how letters managed to weasel their way into the subject. Science hadn't been easy, but he passed, only chemistry would be required if he tested out of biology and physics. Finally there was history, he had done a passable job on the subject, but decided to take a semester to read up on the subject before he could test out. Of course, following that list of courses he would also have to take a number of electives. Among those he decided to take creative writing, a music course, one on photography, and physical education. The last would prove to be a pain in his malnourished ass.

By his calculations he had around two years of school left, and he readily presented that plan to his foster parent and case worker (whenever that man felt like showing up). "Good," Mrs. Brill had said curtly, "Not often do I get children who are willing to work to get out of the system." It seemed the old woman had the same ideas about foster care as most of her children, but she was a nice enough for an adult.

He hardly notice his loss of interest in magic, it was all pushed into the back of his mind. All of it except Sirius, but Harry had long lost hope of being found. It was something that happened during a drug-induced night while his face was being held into his pillow and there was just enough room to breath. He hated the feel of the presser in his back, stabbing him over and over again, but hardly noticed the pain as the feelings of euphoria coated his brain. More than that, Harry hated himself as he clawed at his mental walls, and then suddenly he realized no one was going to find him. Cleaver Orion Noir wouldn't be followed because he wasn't like the celebrity, Harry Potter. He was safe from men like Malfoy or the manipulations of the government, but that same obstacle kept away everyone else too. And what good was the Boy-Who-Was-Raped anyways?

The second semester was full of those thoughts, and the pestering of other students, and many hours in the library. Afterwards he tested out of many classes and was allowed to get his first job.

It was a requirement, really. Mrs. Brill expected her foster children to work for their money, as she didn't believe in anything called 'allowance.' It also helped the household financially, because she now had nine foster children in total.

Harry had started looking for employment in his free time a week before school let out, and was insured a job an a small law office. He was guaranteed a nice paycheck, and the job required mass amounts of research that was sure to keep his mind away from unpleasant things.

He learned quickly that he liked working with Mr. Hagan Caroline, who insisted Harry simply call him 'Caroline.' In return he called Harry 'Noir', but occasionally he would address his assistant as 'Film Noir,' or 'Movie Genre,' and other odd ball things. Despite the bad puns on his chosen name, Caroline had a wicked sense of humor and they would occasionally team up and prank a well-liked client. As the man once told a particularly disturbed woman (who was divorcing her husband, but neither of them wanted the children), "It's how I show affection." Harry recalled he got a date out of it.

Mid-June a particularly disturbing man came waltzing through the door. Caroline greeting him personally, and immediately sent Harry out to gather lunch and research materials.

All while Harry was looking for the books on his list he thought of the man. He was certainly well dressed, more so than Caroline's well kept suits or Harry's cheep slacks and shirts. Every last detail Harry could remember was clean to a near anal retentive level. There was something disturbing about the way he looked down at Harry, who had been manning the phone at the time, but it was dismissed quickly enough.

Harry still had out-patient appointments with a doctor that he sort of-almost trusted. She told him it was normal for someone in his position to be paranoid, and easy to step over some line and become _clinically_ paranoid that could send him back to an asylum. He couldn't let himself think that every man was out to use him.

Once he collected his bag of books from the teller he left to find lunch. It only took a day of working for Caroline to know that the man would eat anything, and the amount of food he could eat in a single sitting rivals everyone in his little foster family combined. Harry was partial to Rueben sandwiches, fresh from the deli. He would pick up one for himself, and maybe four for Caroline. Conveniently, the deli down the street recognized Harry as 'that cute kid that works for that guy with the bottomless stomach.' After enduring the flirtatious sales clerk, who gave him a free cookie, he made his way back to the office.

He thought an hour was enough, and carried his weight in books up the stairs. He caught sight of Caroline saying his farewell to the well dressed man, when he arrived they both stopped and turned to him. "Ah yes, lunch is here. If you'll excuse us?" Caroline said politely, but the tension lines around his eyes looked more prominent.

The man only moved to turn to Harry, "hello," he sounded nice enough, but there was something in his voice that made Harry want to flinch (and possibly go running in the other direction). "I am Sandor Farraday," he said as if it were the most important thing anyone would ever hear.

Harry counted himself lucky that his hands were full, and nodded politely at the man, "Noir," he said plainly. He felt his anxiety begin to rise, and tried to clear his mind and maybe squash the urge to have a pull blown panic attack. Instead he said as calmly as he could, "We really do have a full day of work ahead of us, but it was nice to meet you," and he stepped to the side.

Farraday frowned just a hint, and walked towards Harry. The boy pressed himself against the wall in hope to get as far away from him as possible, but the man seemed to be content to stroll at his leisure and tried to casually brush against his chest. In the last second Harry took a step to the side and avoided contact, rushed to the door and slipped past Caroline.

His first instinct was to regurgitate everything he'd eaten that week, but Harry successfully cleared his mind and the urge slowly faded. In it's place was a familiar itch beneath his skin and his body began to shake. He wasn't cold, but he recognized his body was calling out for the needle. _Any_ needle.

Harry set the books and the food on his desk, casually swiping a safety pin out of the little container to the side and slipped it into his pocket. Caroline stepped into the office not a second later with a frown and a concerned look on his face, "Are you alright, Noir?" Harry nodded once, "I suppose you don't have to guess what he was being charged with," he sighed.

"No, I'm pretty sure I can guess. I'm sorry if I scared you at all," Harry offered, moving the books to the floor and began unpacking the food. "I didn't know what you wanted so I got one of turkey, ham, chicken, and salami." Caroline didn't seem to think he ate so much, so Harry's passive offer of four sandwiches went unnoticed, and the older man decided he'd like to try a bit of each. He sat down in one of the waiting chairs as Harry unpacked his own sandwich, their drinks, and a couple of bags of crisps. "I'll be right back," he said an excused himself to the bathroom. Caroline said nothing in response, but took an eager bite out of his first sandwich.

After closing and locking the door Harry sat pitifully on the lid of the toilet, not caring if the dust was going to stick to his cheap slacks. He pulled the small safety pin out of his pocket. Opened it, closed it, opened it again. He barely poked the tip of his finger, testing the sharpness. Then closed it, opened it, closed it again. It didn't take long for him to made his decision, untied his second-hand dress shoes, stripped his sock off. Again he held the safety pin between his fingers and opened it.

Only for a brief second did he wonder if he should. He knew it wouldn't the same as the drug, wouldn't be the same at all, but maybe he could reduce the itching by just a little. Slowly he pricked the space between his toes, beside one of the old scars, and he pressed it in slowly. His body seemed to relax just a little, so again he picked a space and pressed the needle like pin into his skin. It barely bleed, but a little bit of tissue between his toes insured that none of it would get onto his sock. He redressed his foot, and for good measure washed his hands, before returning to the office.

Caroline was already on his second sandwich.

The rest of the summer went smoothly, and Caroline was sad to reduce his hours to only weekends. Mrs. Brill had strict rules about everything, but especially school. The only reason she let Harry and one older girl named Suzy to keep their jobs was because they were already so dedicated to their studies. While working for Caroline hadn't been a walk it he park, Harry thought he was ready to test out of history too.

For the first semester Harry gladly doubled his math to two classes a day, all to get it out of the way. He had to admit he didn't find the subject all that fun, but it was becoming increasingly easy once someone explained what the letters were for. His electives were a little harder to choose, as he had limited choices, and needed to fill his requirements. He'd chosen an advanced photography class that was worth and extra credit, history of rock, military history, office aid, and some easy looking cooking class (he was assured the first half of the semester was mostly about learning how to use the appliances). In addition to his two math classes, his mandatory physical education, and an optional after hours class that wrote the school newspaper.

His club activities were still non-existent despite the insistence of his teacher to make friends. Harry usually countered that with his goal to graduate early and that he socialized plenty at work. He still practiced meditation, and could organize his thoughts as he liked. Harry actually enjoyed submerging himself into his mind and pretending to walk through the sky. He somewhat missed flying, but the imaginary world that he flew through was better. The only other thing that remained consistent through the first half of the semester was the itching need, and following that was the release at the end of the needle.

It was on two days before Halloween that he finally noticed them. Strange men, all dressed in expensive clothes whether they were jeans or suits. He tried to tell himself he was just being paranoid, but he could swear they were following him. Two men at time, one was always dressed casually while the second was in a work uniform or suite, they would follow him for exactly three blocks before two more took their place abruptly. The other thing most of them had in common was a tattoo, a gray dove with it's head tucked under a red tinted wing. It was most noticeable in the men in causal clothing, but an occasional workers uniform had it.

Harry was sure by the next day that he was being followed.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read: **

This chapter is a little shorter, because I wanted a cliffhanger. I think I succeeded, but I've never been good at writing them.

I also realize that it's got very little dialogue...I don't really know what to say, but I suppose I'm just too eager to get to a certain point in the story.

There are a lot of useless names in this chapter, but the occasional one that'll show up in the future. I like Caroline's name the most, I think…

Thank you again, to those who reviewed. I'd also like to give thanks to people who have already added me to their alert and favorites list.

I like reviews and quotes.

Alzipher.


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